I know from talking to some of my twelve readers that my potty mouth is sometimes problematic, at least in terms of folks being able to read my musings at work. Well, I’m sorry about this, but honestly, I’ve cleaned up my act as much as I can in this regard. Also, I’m starting from a deficit. I have a genetic predisposition toward filth. Here’s an example of what I’m talking about.
My sister and I were sitting around at my parents’ house, talking about dogs, as you do. We were discussing specifically Meg’s mother-in-law’s dog, Bingo, and the fact that his little operation didn’t seem to take.
“I mean honestly, I’m sitting there in the car, minding my own business, and Stephen says, hey, Meghan, look in the back seat, and I look and there’s Bingo, grinning at me, with his huge red dick hanging out.”
At this point, my Mom came into the room, looking puzzled, as anyone would having come into that conversation mid-sentence.
“What’s going on?” She asked.
“Bingo had the snip, but it didn’t work.”
“Well, I know that!” She said brightly. “At your cousin’s wedding, he tried to fuck my ankle!” Her face changed for a minute. “And I wouldn’t mind, but I knitted that dog a sweater.”
People, I ask you. Was there ever any hope for me? Clearly, there was not.